Mercy for the Wicked
by Raider-esque
Summary: A wandering priest of Mara stumbles upon a certain devotee of Vaermina, at the verge of death after the incident at Nightcaller Temple. They speak of love, faith and devotion, and it opens Casimir's eyes to a brand new place of faith and purpose.


Something drove him to wander the area.

He doesn't know why, but he's following wherever his gut is taking him. He trusts that his Lady will know the answer. The snow crackles under his boots as the man makes his way through the woods. Through the snow covered trees he makes out a lump in the snow.

_A killed animal?_ Might be.

_A forgotten knapsack?_ Unlikely.

_A body?_ Probably.

Once he gets there, his suspicion is confirmed. Crumpled in the snow is the body of an Orcish man, probably a hunter or bandit, by the looks of the fur cloak and warpaint. Upon further examination, the smeared prints and striations in the snow around him tell the story of a short, exhausting battle, ending with the death of the Orc, with a dagger sticking out of his back. But leading away from the body is a trail of blood. Messy drips of it dot a set of footprints left by a staggering survivor. The killer is still out there, but isn't going to last very long.

* * *

><p>His breathing's too heavy. The most comfortable thing he can do right then is just lay there, and breathe. It's hard, considering the collapsed lung that Orc had dealt him, but he takes comfort in knowing it would all be over soon.<p>

He's cold, and getting colder. And so tempted to cough, he knows submitting to the pressure in his chest would make it more painful, and so he just sits there, uncomfortable as ever. The fresh blood cooling on his chest leaves an unbearable chill. He wipes his mouth after countless times before, further caking his purple sleeve with blood. Casimir had not slept the night before, dreading what would come if he'd dare to sleep. He fears Vaermina would seek retribution for betraying her and his brethren. He doesn't know how long he'll last. He needs to stay awake.

The moment he slammed shut the doors of Nightcaller Temple, he regretted fleeing. But he knew if he turned back to try and aid them, they would turn on him. Then it would be the pack of Orcs _and_ the Devotees of Vaermina against him. He ran as fast as he could, away from the temple and into the cover of the snowy woods. His lungs burned with every inhalation of the crisp Skyrim air as he tried to elude the line of sight of an Orc that had sensed a fleeing victim leaving the dangers of the temple.

He had failed.

The Orc eventually spotted him, and so began the chase. He had tracked him for hours, until Casimir finally gave up and fought back the Orc with his pitiful iron dagger. It was no match for the Orc's greatsword, and he knew he wouldn't be coming out of the battle unscathed. Destruction spells and the dunmer's agility against of the Orc's slow and heavy swings earn him his survival.

Barely.

Casimir survived, but at the cost of deep cuts and the stab wound inflicted by the Orc's back up dagger. He trudged through the snow a short way, stopping to lie against the base of a tree.

* * *

><p>The sound of approaching footfalls behind him reaches his ears, and despite the severity of his situation, he rolls his eyes at the unwelcomed sound. After a time, they stop in front of him. The man dons the robes of a monk, he who was interrupting what Casimir wants to be his final moments. He appears to be out of breath, gaping at the dunmer's state.<p>

"Sir, are you in need of assistance?"

He carries a Staff of Healing on his back, and an amulet of sorts hangs around his wrist.

_He must be a priest._

"No." Casimir shakes his head, taking in a breath. "I don't need your help." Ignoring the dunmer's rejection, the priest looks uneasily around the red snow surrounding the him.

"There's blood everywhere. Were you attacked? I—I can help you. I can spare a—"

"I said no." Casimir presses in the sternest voice he can muster. "I didn't ask for your help. Please," He closes his eyes with a sigh. "Please just let me die alone, in peace." The priest just looks at him, brows furrowed. He holds a question in his eyes, but hesitates to ask. Casimir sees it all too easily.

"You can't help me. Even if you wanted to."

The priest thinks otherwise. He feels he can prove the the dunmer wrong, and not to mention puzzled as to why he doesn't want any help.

"Why are you refusing help?"

He takes in another deep breath. "I've lived a short, terrible life. I'm a traitor to the only people I've ever known. Ever depended on. Not only that, but the nightmares I've prayed all my life to keep at bay will forever haunt me in the only place where I find true peace."

The priest is now dumbfound, hoping the dying man would elaborate.

"Horrors beyond your wildest fathoms await me. Think of the purest fears lurking deep at the back of your mind. You know, the ones you try your hardest to keep from coming to mind when you're alone in the dark. A place where they _thrive_ awaits me tonight. That is why I cannot stay here."

The priest almost regrets his curiosity, finding Casimir's words quite unsettling. He chalks it up to delusion. He had lost a lot of blood, and the dark circles under his eyes show the sheer amount of sleep he was sure to be lacking. Despite the warnings, the priest takes a step toward him, reaching into a satchel strapped to his side.

"Back up." Casimir firmly holds up a dagger, clearly directed toward the man in the monk robes. He freezes in place.

"Do you have a problem with hearing, old man? You are not welcome here." The priest doesn't say anything, only retracking his reach from the satchel. He is sure he wasn't thinking clearly. People near death tend to think irrationally. He doesn't want any trouble.

"Hand me the dagger."

After a moment, Casimir takes a sigh. He turns the dagger in his hand, the blade pointing toward himself instead. The priest merely blinks at the offered handle.

"What, aren't you going to 'deliver my soul from this ephemeral wickedness'? Isn't that what you people do?"

The priest reluctantly takes the dagger, dismissing the elf's absurd idea of what people of religion do, and killing in the name of the Divines. It looks so out of place in his hands, and he holds it awkwardly and non-threateningly.

"Hold still." He tells Casimir, and he drops it into the snow. His hand lights up in a warm glow, and he raises it over his wounds. The Dunmer begins to stir at the sight of his wounds glowing, and seeming to shrink a fraction. Not to mention the comfortable numbness where before was agonizing. His bloody red eyes widen at the priest.

"What was that? What did you do?"

He grins proudly. "It was the warmth of Mara's touch. Do you feel better?"

Casimir sits up, carefully hugging himself to asess the remaining damage to his body. "Yes, if it will make you leave."

"A small healing spell won't save you, but it will numb the pain."

"Good. It'll be a nicer way to go."

His smile sinks into a frown. "Surely there will be someone who will miss you."

"No. Everyone I know hates me. And I accept that."

The priest stares at him with pity, taking a seat in the snow. "Were you ever loved?"

"What makes you think that's any of your concern?"

"Love warms the heart. And the soul. You're cold. So cold. You've never felt the warmth of Mara's glow. Have you?"

Casimir's eyes narrow at the distasteful positivity in the priest's words. "What are you babbling on about?"

"My name is Darnure. I am a priest of Mara. I can take you to the temple. We can heal you. There, no nightmares can plague you. Mara will protect you."

"No." He shakes his head. "I need to stay here."

At that, the priest suddenly stands. His fists balled, he glares down at him.

"How can you sit here and die when you haven't even experienced life yet? You've lived, but have not experienced. You have nothing to show for it. It appears to me you have nothing left to lose, my friend, so why don't you stand up and give it another chance!"

He doesn't reply right away. Casimir's gaze falls as he mulls over the priest's words. He fled the temple for a reason. He did not want eternal slumber to protect his deity. He comes to the realization that his devotion toward Vaermina was not entirely true. Further more, he didn't _really_ want to die. It would have been an easy way out, but he could start over. But staying alive meant that he would have to hide. Surely the cultists would wake up some time, and hunt him down. The last place Veren or Thorek would think to look for him is a place of holiness. It would make for a great cover.

He looks up at the priest, fruitlessly attempting to stand before his wounds protest.

He groans. "I _can't_ stand."

The priest's shoulders slump, and the glare subsides. He offers a firm hand to held him up. Casimir accepts his hand, and, clutching his painful chest, he's hauled to his feet. The priest pulls his hand over his shoulder, and holds him upright. They make their way to, Casimir didn't know where.

"This isn't going to end well."

The priest smiles warmly. "Have faith."

"My faith lies no where now."

"Well, I suggest you lay it somewhere. One cannot live faithlessly."

* * *

><p>AN: May revise. And may continue, if I find a way to, and if enough people want me to. Thanks for reading! Please leave a review. It's greatly appreciated. :)<p> 


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